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K Balachandran Dec 2015
There in the air, it hung, muted yet palpable,
like the  inebriating scent of new rain on earth
with this signal morning alluded something,
as if challenging anyone there to swiftly respond.

Gazing at the far away mountains, waking up,
pulling away slowly the blanket of darkness
a purple sun above making a symphony of colors
she is caught in the waves of the mood, it's cadence
captures the spirit in a poem; it blooms on it's own.

Zestfully she reads it in her resounding voice,as if
to the chickens clucking around in the cluttered barn
there wasn't any audience other than the birds and the cattle;
a sudden change the chickens,strange, till the moment before
they were looking for a worm or two in the black earth.

As if forgotten all other things the chicken stood
their head held high, beaks open as if to peck
in an attentive posture, they stood listening to her,
the moment they got the tune right,started reciting it.

The cows in the shed  turned to the direction of her voice,
as if it's a song, and it's for them she was singing .
A Mink Nov 2015
I built my own cage,
                      I’m the designer of
                                     my own prison

I twisted the metal till my hands bled
working every wire into a bar
I fastened every bolt and every *****
meticulously trapping myself there

I marked you as my salvation
and the truth is you were only a
                           figment of my imagination
I controlled this place
you were not my executioner
     and I’m free to leave
              so free

but i can’t

if you asked me to stay
I would be dammed to say no

one cadence
          one word
              one syllable

thats all the effort you’d ever have to put in
tell me that magic phrase
Ill lock this door behind me
K Balachandran Sep 2015
This precisely is the secret hour, that brings to an end
of the long wait of patient bats, now let them ecstatically mate,
mind, wakes up from stupor,in creative instinct,becomes a ******,
though peering in to own hidden shadows, from a pantomime past.
Silence of many shades reign in the mansion of magic beyond space,
along the labyrinthine inner corridor, lighted seldom or even never.

The dark nimbus clouds above, purge, thunder roars,victorious,
outside the cave rain in torrents lashes, winds whistle like possessed,
heart fills with an urge urgent,words fumble to express with verve,
blind bats, hanging upside down, wake all at once, shaking wings,
they arise creating a cacophony,then the transformation is quick,
what results is a frenzied ****** fight for colored words to mate.

The pairs suited most, in the crowded cave , intuitively selected,
commandeered, brought together, merged perfectly, without effort,
blending with the rare beauty of light filtering in, striking images
of different hues appear on the screen, moving pictures of creation.

Everything is still here except,a fecund sense, awareness in fire,
thoughts are in a churn, turn towards the starlit firmament,
and fertile red earth doused in the scent new rain roused,
blue water expanses, rippling moves as waves after waves
all finally settle, mind's creative pool now, is a placid reservoir.

Astonished he is, by the immortality of words, that acquire
an escape velocity to project, shoot up through the clouds,
it's payload, is carried by a  fuel, alchemy created propellant,
that ensures poetic transcendence,the fused golden words live long.

The creative moments, are pure  wonder, when within the folds
of primordial sound,he waves silk blending it with golden threads,
The poet becomes the word first and the word speaks through  him,
poem is a canal perennial,for the flow of desire, hope and pain concealed deep,all projected by the  mind continuum that never sleeps.
Ever did attempt, to try and  explain how poetic stirrings, begin and ooze, becomes trickle , becomes a flow, gushes out..
Vamika Sinha Jun 2015
'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
beat of a metronome.
But now,
against your
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
don't let it end, don't let it,

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'
the city and it's music
every changing
the city and it's music
daily rearranging

you can hear the distant thunder
kept in time by city drums
a beat of urban tires
that makes the city roadways strum
the wind blows through the subway
you can hear the wires hum
it's the city making music
shut your eyes and listen some

the band has no conductor
there are horns and there are strings
there's a bass back from the buses
listen to the joy it brings
it's a concert in the city
by the city and it rings
the bells from downtown churches
and the piegeons flapping wings

you've an orchestra around now
listen close, it never stops
from the cars racing through downtown
to the whistle blowing cops
it's a different kind of music
it's got a rhythm that just pops
it's a gritty harder sound
that echos to the building tops

cars, trucks, people walking
all are part of this great band
and the best part of this music
is it's spread across the land
each song you hear is different
nothing ever comes out planned
each city has a cadence
listen close, the show's at hand....
If music is love expressed, then how will my song play?
Will each phrase be smooth with content or broken by loss?
Will the notes be frantic and panicked, like my searching heart once was?
Or steady and certain, as my head is now?
Will  the hands on the keys be shaking and cold?
Or free from fear and dancing in confidence?
How many voices will join the ensemble?
And for fleeting moments or prolonged duets?
Will I keep moving forward with driving rhythms?
Or pull everything back and take a more leisurely pace?  
Maybe there will be a turning point, when dark becomes light, or when shadows grow stronger still.
Or perhaps a gentle fade, as each perfect harmony wears away at my soul.
Whether the music rises or falls does not concern me, however.
For the beauty of music is not in the highest note or the hardest bar.
It is in the reason behind every dot on the page.
And In the end there is no point in music for the sake of music, just as there is little point in love for the sake of romance.
I know there will be moments of unsure dissonance and outright clashes that were never meant to be.
But I'm hopeful, that in the same way as in music, eventually all will be resolved.
So I hope not for drama, but an unforced and natural conclusion:

**A perfect cadence.
Katie Katie Jan 2015
In cadence they begin to sing
Fearing deadly fate
A chorus of "no"s and "please"s
My brain refuses to wake me
At least this time it's only a dream

In my brain again are their voices
They reverberate
The screams themselves repeat
Not a lesser volume than that of
Agony, remorse, dread, hate
Lyra O Jul 2014
the seam of your undershirt,
stretched straight across the valley’s crest
of your back, creasing through
the fabric of your shabby purple
sweater, highlighted by shadows cast
upon your form by the languid yellow
of the streetlights lining the street at
six in the evening, when everything
is blue & black, & dumb gray
is the atmosphere, ringing with the
revving of the cars passing us by
in streaks of red & blindness,
blurring past us, to the rhythm of
the rise & fall of your shoulders &
the sway of your hips, perfectly in
view as you walk ahead, unaware
of my stare, boring deep into the
dip of your spine’s abyss, thinly sheathed
by the taut stretch of your undershirt
draped over by your flimsy sweater,
mauve in the dim light, & through the haze
of gray escaping my lips, forming a wall
gossamer-thin before my face, streaming
in between my vision & your form, your
image of purple, mauve, silent, in the
blue & yellow, of black-brown bob hair
glinting in the sharp pierce of the dull
fireflies overhead, dead, undancing,
fixed atop their posts as beacons,
but jaded, faded, & damp,
like the purple of your sweater.
18 September 2013.

— The End —